


Recuperations

by magicalzephyr



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: I'm bringing launchshipping back- the ship that was never alive, M/M, Proton gets in a fight late at night/very early in the morning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 09:45:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8367622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicalzephyr/pseuds/magicalzephyr
Summary: In which Proton makes horrible late-night decisions, but Archer is gracious enough to help him.





	

Proton was prone to causing trouble, this was a well-known fact. It's as if he thrived on it. So it's no surprise he decided to start a fight with a complete stranger, just picking a random face out of a crowd and throwing a punch. To his initial enjoyment, the stranger fought back. To his dismay, picking this particular opponent was, perhaps, biting off more than he could chew. But he won! "Won" meaning he was actually able to walk away from the fight afterwards (just in time to evade the police, thank goodness). 

Excitement thrums throughout his veins and mixes with the pain pulsating throughout his entire body, creating some conflicted sensation. Proton decides he likes it. He's quite addicted to it. Only now he has to haul his sorry self somewhere to recover. Hence why he ended up on Archer's front porch, clutching to the shallow cut on his abdomen-- because, hey, how was _he_ supposed to know the guy had a pocket knife? 

He knocks on the door with a solid, white-knuckled fist. He might need to apologize for getting blood on the door. But he won't. 

Archer then is there, swinging open the door in a fluid motion. Proton grins lop-sided. No words are exchanged. Archer only inspects him with cold, calculating eyes and a skeptic eyebrow raised. The door is promptly shut in Proton's face. 

This leaves Proton peeved. Another knock. No answer. Ah, so that's how it's going to be. Wonderful. 

Proton allows Archer a moment in hopes he'll return. But he doesn't take the opportunity. Of course he doesn't. This is Archer we're talking about. But Proton is relentless, as he's always been a persistent man. When the knocking fails he decides to switch tactics. 

It's always an option to test the back door. There's no telling when Archer's left it locked or unlocked, but there's a slim chance in Proton's favor nonetheless. Of course, there's the obstacle of the house's fence-- a structure to keep malicious dogs in and conniving robbers out. Clearly he can't neatly jump it in his condition. But Proton's oddly optimistic, and his physical status is no excuse to not try. 

And he does. He fails miserably, but he'll call it a victory since he got over it. Too bad the lost-footing crash roughed him up even more so than when he arrived. He mutters a string of curses and returns to his feet like a rag-doll. Fresh pain tears into him once again. 

The commotion alerts Archer's Houndoom. It blazes up in a bullet of snarls and barking to ward off the intruder. The Pokémon is furious as it pounces Proton, slamming him against the fence. Proton hisses. Great. Dandy. This is just what he needed, to be mauled to death by a dog. Houndoom shoves its snout into his shirt, picking up the scent of blood and, ultimately, therefore recognizing Proton himself as someone it knows. It backs off, dropping back to the ground where it sits and glares. Proton glares back. 

He doesn't even need to try the lock; Archer's waiting for him, vaguely vexed, leaning against the glass door. He's dressed in a simple flannel and sweatpants. Well, it _is_ nearly three a.m. Proton opens his mouth to force out some sort of greeting or explanation, but is cut off when Archer raises a hand, wordlessly ordering him to save his breath. 

"Question: Are you drunk?" 

That's a wound to Proton's pride and he's appalled to admit he's offended. No, he's not drunk. Didn't touch any alcohol this evening. He doesn't need to be intoxicated to make horrible decisions (he can screw up perfectly sober, thank you). 

"No." He keeps it short and clean, correlating to how Archer likes it. 

Archer scrutinizes him a while more, piercing daggers into him with icy eyes. But Proton's accustomed to this treatment and doesn't give Archer the satisfaction of squirming under his gaze, unyielding. Though, he's getting impatient. These injuries aren't going to treat themselves. 

He gives in, permitting entrance. "To the bathroom," Archer says, and Proton follows the order. It's down the hall and to the left, and there Proton sits on the lid of the toilet, waiting on Archer to arrive with supplies. Houndoom pokes its head in the bathroom doorway as if to confirm Proton isn't further ruining things. Proton sticks his tongue out at it. 

Archer returns with medical supplies. Proton stuffs his tongue back into his mouth. 

The supplies are tossed onto the counter rather messily, like this is all some grand inconvenience. Which it is, probably. Archer puts his hands on his hips and considers the damage. A busted lip, a black eye, a bruised cheek with broken and bleeding skin, a bloody nose. Fresh scrapes from the fence shenanigans. Down trails the examination, and only then does he notice the shirt damp with blood. "Alright, shirt off." 

Proton snorts. "How anticlimactic." But he does so anyways, flinging it in the general direction of the laundry hamper. It lands on the floor. Houndoom approaches it to sniff, before losing interest and exiting the scene. 

Archer wets a washcloth, kneeling down to clean the stomach injury. It's shallow, thankfully, and the blade only really tore skin. If it was any deeper, well… Proton would either be dead or hospitalized, and Archer isn't definite on which Proton would prefer. The skin around the cut is pink and blotchy, likely irritated from the friction of fabric. 

He mops up the dried blood with the cloth and deliberate touches. Proton makes a face when the cut itself is prodded, but makes no vocal protest. There's no eye contact. Archer is focused on cleaning the wound, and Proton shuts up enough to let him do it. Then a bottle of hydrogen peroxide is uncapped, and Archer applies some to the wound via washcloth. Proton tenses. 

Archer snorts with amusement. Bandages are wrapped around the midriff, because the sticky varieties are too small to cover the horizontal mark. "So, mind sparing the details on how this happened? And why at half past two in the morning?" he asks. He's truly interested. It's not a rare occurrence for Proton to get beat up, but surely there's a form of fabricated story behind it-- an excuse. 

The question is met with a shrug. "Got in a fight, the guy pulled a knife on me," he explains, casual. Like this is normal. Which, for him, it could be. It's unknown where the boundary between "normal" and "unusual" falls in Proton's life. 

"Consider yourself lucky none of your guts spilled." And Archer means it. 

"Wow, thanks. I'm so blessed. So lucky." 

Again with the brow raised and quizzical. "I'm fully capable of kicking you out, you know." That is also something Archer is serious about. He could, he is capable. But he won't, because Proton's company was egregious (to Archer, either definition was fitting, simultaneously). He adds emphasis by flinging cotton balls at Proton aggressively, for his nose, which Proton graciously accepts with a laugh.

"Yeah, but you won't." And he says it like a smart-ass, too, with a smug grin on his face Archer would love to wipe off. But it's true, so Archer gifted him with silence to avoid official defeat. But Proton, being Proton, will not let it rest there. "You always pretend to be stoic and stone-hearted, but I know deep down you really do give a fuck about me."

"I did not deny that I did," Archer replies with an air of indifference. Proton accepts this as confirmation. 

The medical process is repeated for the newer scrapes, then the busted cheek. "What color Band-Aid do you want?" Archer asks, showing off the color and design variations. 

"The purple one, thanks." A mauve-ish bandage with a Golbat print is slapped onto his face. It's annoying. " _Ow_ ," he complains, even if it doesn't hurt. "I was just in a fight, can you be _gentle_ at least?"

"And whose fault is it that you ended up getting your ass handed to you?" There's a slight sarcasm underneath the words, and it irks Proton.

"Hey, I _won_. That guy fainted, I didn't." He's off on a gloating tangent, now. "He was probably carried off to the hospital. I, on the other hand, was able to get up and drag my ass out of there."

"And then come and pester me."

"Exactly."

"At almost three in the morning." 

"In my defense, you were already awake. Because, honestly? If you were actually sleeping you wouldn't have been at the door within a minute of me knocking." That's admittedly impressive, how he deduced that. Though perhaps Archer doesn't give Proton enough credit on a general basis anyways-- but to face facts, he likely never will.

"Interesting," Archer notes, mainly speaking to himself. He's ignored for the better. 

"Anyways. You going to apologize for ruining my beautiful face ten-fold?" He's only half-joking.

Archer packs up the first-aid kit. "It was a love tap." 

Proton can't feign exasperation past that. He smirks. "It was not. Apologize." He finds satisfaction in the way Archer's lips upturn in a playful smile; a sight Proton will never not find charming.

"Hm, seems you have twisted my arm yet again. Kudos." He leans down, pecking a small kiss to the tip of Proton's nose. "I am sorry you are such a sensitive prick." 

Proton is grinning a toothy grin. "My sensitive self will try not to get offended by that."

Archer then proffers a hand to help him up, and Proton accepts. "Let me get ice for your face. You look like hell." Exiting the bathroom, Archer directs him to the couch in the living room as he fetches the ice pack and also a pajama shirt. He tosses them into Proton's lap upon his return, who is fumbling with the television remote. Archer collapses next to him with a huff, stretching his arms to perch on the headrest of the couch. 

Proton flips the channel to some late night drama. He has no idea what it is or what it's about but in all honestly, he doesn't care. "So, why're you up so late, anyways?" Proton himself has his reasons; he tends to have an excuse or two up his sleeve. It's a mystery why Archer's never set a solid sleep schedule, though. It's surprising that a man so organized as himself didn't.

Archer shrugs. "Sleeping is overrated." Proton gives an empty laugh (the short, single-syllabled kind). 

Though Proton does not agree, and sleep is something he's very much in need of, because beating up random passer-by's is exhausting work. He shifts, repositioning himself into something more comfortable, resting his head on Archer's chest and lifting his legs up onto the couch. Archer pets his hair, out of habit. 

He's warmed by the comfort of Archer, despite the ice pack's chilly condensation on his face. He half-registers the fact Archer placed a kiss to his head in his drowsy state of mind, as he soon slips into slumber.


End file.
